You weren’t used to comforts like this — and Tomura’s new office at the Paranormal Liberation Front’s headquarters was comfortable. The walls are a gunmetal grey, the carpets a darker shade of coal, the furniture glass and the scent of Tomura lingering in the air of the space he’s been inhabiting more and more often — something like ash and pine, like a funeral pyre in the woods.

You were part of the League prior to this little alliance with the Meta Liberation freaks as Dabi liked to call them — Tomura’s right hand, if he was the executioner then you were the blade. Though not to say you bent to his every whim — no you caused enough chaos and havoc to triple that of Twice and Toga combined.

But still, you’re the one Tomura trusts the most — why? Nobody could say, it was simply just the state of affairs, the status quo. Tomura didn’t rely on anybody, but he did find your opinion a little more valuable than most.

So here you sit, on his desk, the clock in his office ticking quarter past two in the morning and the scratch of Tomura’s pen as he works on some new plans for expanding his arsenal of Nomu’s. His hair is loose and white, his usual creepy hands nowhere to be seen, face unobscured as he’s been keeping it more and more often lately, and lips set in a pressed line as he listens to you regale him with your latest mission that you’ve just returned from.

Your palms rest back on his desk, seated on the dark mahogany filled with documents, an action Tomura would’ve dusted anybody else for.

“So what? Taking four guards out in three minutes isn’t a valid excuse for getting blood on the documents,” Tomura mutters, lips curled in mild distaste, the blood splattered documents you’d retrieved just an hour ago next to him.

“Don’t you know restraint? Or was it a lack of forethought on your part?”